I’d been dating in New York for ten years. I’d had my misadventures. I knew that into every dating life a little heartbreak must fall. But this time I hit the exacta: I was not only dating an older man, I wound up breaking my heart over a six-year-old girl.
Of course, I fell in love with the little girl’s dad first, my older lover, D. Evie was his date to the wedding where we met, a little blondie in a floaty white dress. During the first blissful weeks of our relationship, D. and I talked a great deal about his divorce, and his daughter. She was the apple of his eye, despite his exceptionally bitter divorce from her mother. Despite soaring legal bills, he had wrestled a judge into granting him two weeks a month with Evie. When I was her age, my own divorced father chose to spend only seven hours a week with me. D’s devotion to Evie only deepened my love for him.
We were just beginning to strategize how and when I should meet Evie when D. called me at home one night, sounding both amused and a bit scandalized. He’d left Evie lying on his bed, watching a video, then headed back to the kitchen to wash the dishes. About a half-hour later, a small but insistent voice behind him said, “Daddy? Whose hair is this?” In the doorway stood Eve, one hand on her hip, holding up a strand of hair that she’d found on Dan’s pillow. She knew it wasn’t her daddy’s hair (too long) or her own (too dark). We had been busted by a five-year-old. D. knelt down and explained that yes, the hair belonged to a lady friend of Daddy’s who sometimes spent the night when Evie wasn’t there. Evie took this all in, shrugged, and simply said, “can I meet her?”
A week later, Evie and I met again, but this time as Daddy’s daughter and Daddy’s girlfriend. She hid slightly behind D. at first. But her shyness quickly melted, and within an hour we were playing games and making dinner. That night, when she woke crying from a nightmare, she snuggled happily in bed between D. and me and fell asleep almost instantly. Thus began the most intimate part of my love affair with D.–the part where I fell in love with his daughter.
The three of us settled quickly into a routine. On the mornings Evie was at D’s, she’d cuddle in bed with us, and when she left for school, she’d always make sure to kiss me goodbye when D. did. When she and D. had their nightly phone calls, she often asked to speak with me–soliciting endless stories about my adventures “as when you were a little girl too.” I spent hours spinning tall tales to satisfy Evie’s hunger for a good story. I found that while I loved the weekends D. and I spent alone, cooking, reading, making love, I also looked forward to the weekends with Evie, when she would sit next to me on the couch and ask to “just do needlepoint together,” which meant me stitching away and her carefully separating the different colors of silk.
As Evie became a routine part of my life, my mother–herself a stepmom of two–gave it to me straight up: “If things aren’t right with you and Evie, they won’t ever be right with you and D.” I dedicated myself to making things right with Evie and surprisingly, I found myself growing excited–not just about the prospect of spending my life with D., but about becoming a stepmother. Even more surprisingly, it was Evie who brought it up first. She began nonchalantly announcing to her playmates, “I’m going to have a new stepmommy, and her name is Becky.” Pretty soon thereafter, she started putting the screws to me and D. When she saw my clothes hanging in D.’s closet she scolded him: “why don’t you just marry her already” The kid was mouthy–a girl after my own heart. At breakfast one morning–about a month after we’d met–she looked me dead in the eye and said, “Are you and Daddy going to give me a baby brother or sister?” I nearly choked on my toast. D’s face turned bright red as he struggled not to laugh.
“I don’t know, honey,” I answered honestly, “Daddy and I haven’t decided whether we’re going to get married yet, and you have to be married to have a baby.” Hearing a retro-bullshit line like that from a self-congratulatory feminist like me almost sent D. into orbit. Lips twitching, he carefully set down his coffee and stared out the window, focusing on some distant point in the backyard until he’d regained his composure.
Now, I’ll freely admit that life with Evie was not always rosy. She was still a kid, and a precocious and assertive one. There were occasional meltdowns, and there were definitely nights when I did not fancy having a wiggly five-year-old crawl into bed with me and elbow my spleen as I slept. Still, by the divorced-dad-with-new-younger-girlfriend standards, we were in very, very good shape.
Spring arrived. One April day as Evie and I potted flowers in the backyard, she asked me if I loved her daddy. I told her without hesitation that I loved her Daddy with all my heart. She looked down at the clump of petunias she was holding and asked, her voice quavering slightly, “do you love me too?” It was a shot straight to my heart. I dumped my own petunias and hugged her, ignoring the mud that coated both of us. “I do love you.” I answered honestly, “and not just because I love your Daddy, but because I love you.” And by God, I meant it. It was as stunning a revelation as that first electric kiss from D.
In May, D. hosted a 30th birthday party for me. My family and friends came from around the country. D. and I were not engaged yet, but everyone at the party could sense the way the wind was blowing. My father shook hands with departing guests and said, “see you at the wedding.” He was only half kidding. I knew that D. had begun to think about how he might propose, and we both daydreamed about enlarging the house so we could have more space after we were married. It was the happiest time of my life.
But then my beloved dropped the bomb. Late one night, with Evie asleep nearby, D. confessed that he wasn’t sure if he wanted more children. He cherished his daughter, but he was 47, and tied to child-support payments for another 17 years. Uncertainty was starting to gnaw at him. He wanted to marry me, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to start another family as he turned 50.
I took the news as calmly as I could, trying to ignore the sudden, ominous churning in my stomach. I had never been one of those girls who dreamed of mommyhood. Still, I knew with absolute certainty that I wanted to have a child. I’d accepted the fact that by marrying an older man, I might be a young widow. The thought of losing Dan and being left completely alone was intolerable. I would always have Evie, of course, but Evie already had a loving mother of her own. And while I never wanted to admit it to D., I knew in my heart of hearts that I would grow to resent Evie if being her stepmother meant I couldn’t have a child of my own.
To D’s credit, he never tried to talk me out of my desire to have children. He agonized over the issue every day while I prayed that he’d come around. We were happy, I reassured myself. Evie was happy. It still felt like a winning hand.
But it wasn’t. My life slowed to a dreadful state of suspended animation as D. grew increasingly quiet and withdrawn. We were lying in bed together, my head on his chest, when he finally blurted it out: “I just don’t want any more children.” Once he said it, I knew there was no going back. ”I think we should end it,” he said, even as he clutched me so hard I had bruises for days afterwards. “We can’t stay together if we don’t want the same future.”
That was a week before Evie’s sixth birthday. D. and I had been planning the birthday party for a month. He still wanted me to be there, but I refused. It would kill me to play the role of happy wife and stepmother knowing that I would never be either. I had needlepointed a special gift for Evie, which D. gave her, making a hasty excuse for my absence. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth. For Evie’s sake, we agreed that I’d still go on a day trip we’d planned for after her birthday. Evie had a terrific time. She didn’t seem to notice that I was on the verge of tears the whole time and her father was a wreck. His face, his walk, his tone of voice, everything was so patently miserable that I could barely stand to look at him. I wanted to be angry at D. but it would have been like kicking a sad-eyed puppy. In the end, it was more than a month before he broke the news to Evie: no new stepmommy, or baby brother or sister. By the time he told her, I’m sure she already knew.
D. and I were still desperately in love when we broke up. Our relationship hadn’t ground to an indifferent halt, or ended in anger or betrayal. I wish it had. Indifference would have felt downright soothing. Anger would have been cleansing, or at least motivating. Instead, I lived with a constant, searing sense of loss that robbed me of sleep and appetite. I lost an unhealthy amount of weight. I could hardly drag myself to work in the morning. I would tremble and burst into tears for no apparent reason. A friend who was a recovered heroin addict diagnosed me in a flash: “Yep. You need methadone.”
So I went on vacation to Hawaii and got the methadone: a sweetheart of a guy who my friends dubbed “Mr. Rebound.” He was kind, funny, attentive, and is still one of my closest friends. But he wasn’t nearly as effective a cure as I’d hoped. Dating again didn’t quiet the phantom limb pain that kept dogging me. It took me a while, but I worked it out: I didn’t just miss my boyfriend. I missed his kid.
I had been unprepared for how much I would love Evie when I was with D. I was even more unprepared for how much I would miss her. I had to avert my eyes from store windows with little girl clothes. I got rid of the needlepoint pattern Evie and I had worked on. It was simply too painful to remember her sitting on my lap, patiently counting out the threads for me. After I moved my things out of D’s house, I found a sock of Evie’s mixed up with my clothes. I couldn’t bring myself to send it back. I stuffed it in the box that contained D’s love letters and photos, which sat on my dresser like a cremation urn.
It’s been three years now. I haven’t seen Evie since then, although her mother–with whom I had a cordial relationship–graciously sent me some pictures of her last year. I don’t talk with D. anymore. About a year after the breakup he held my hand in a Greenwich Village bar and cried about how much he missed me. He told me that Evie still talked about me. “She asks if you can come for a sleepover and I have to mutter something about how grown-up sleepovers are different than children’s sleepovers,” he confessed. “She still tells everyone that you taught her to needlepoint. I know she misses you.” Soon I was crying too. But we didn’t get back together. If I had pushed, I might have gotten him to marry me, and maybe to have a child. I could have been Evie’s stepmom after all. But I didn’t want to be the border collie herding the sheep through the gate. If D. wouldn’t do it with a glad heart, I wouldn’t do it at all. It was a good couple years before it stopped hurting, but it’s a decision I’ve never regretted.
It’s 9:09 a.m.; this is too early to be crying.
Oh Becky, this is beautiful and heartbreaking. I know my own stepmother struggled with not having her own children after marrying my father and it is such a complicated emotional web.
This is beautifully done. I fell in love with kids every time I babysat them…and two years ago, I had trouble even engaging in what I knew would be a fling with a guy who didn’t want kids. Good for you for not taking the easier road of just settling.
Oh wow.
((hugs))
Hold on, I got sand in my eye or something…
Oh good lord, honey. I’ve been through some anguish in my day, but not that kind. My figurative heart strings are all twisted around right now (like embroidery thread). *hug*
Oh, dear Becky. Such good and honest writing. Been there. I dreamt about the boys at least once a week for a year after I broke up with the father. About the promises I made them to be with their dad…and broke. And the way they smelled like puppies playing. And their big ass feet. Didn’t miss the duplicitous mean manipulative father (did I say that out loud?), but lord I missed those boys. I felt sorry for their future which was patently doomed.
Gee. I haven’t thought about that in a decade. That’s what good writing does. Good show.
becky, you hit the nail on the head as to why i steer clear of guys with kids. i want to have kids of my own, either conceived the old fashioned way or adopted…it’s a dealbreaker for me…and nine times out of ten, single guys who have kids don’t want any more kids. it’s not that i couldn’t or don’t want to be a stepmom, because i would be fine with that, but i’m also not going to drag a man kicking and screaming into what i want if he doesn’t already want it himself. after a certain age..let’s say, 35…there’s none of this “oh, he’ll change!” thinking anymore. if he’s not on board, then he’s overboard.
i’ve known people who had long relationships with guys who had kids, and the kids because very attached to the girlfriend…even sought out the girlfriend on an internet networking site after a very contentious and overwrought breakup. it’s hardbreaking and heartwrenching for everyone involved.
Aw, thanks, y’all.
This happened a few years back, and fortunately, thankfully, it does not hurt anymore. In fact, getting to the point where it no longer hurt and I could fall in love with someone else was seriously the most triumphant experience of my life.
@Kruschev: Sweetie, I cried enough for every single person on the internetz when this happened. No further weeping is required.
@rednrowdy: The whole “I’m not going to drag a man kicking and screaming” is so key, and was a big revelation for me. I realized I could never argue/manipulate/deceive a man into fathering my children–I know women who have done that and it NEVER ends well. I’d go to a sperm bank first. I’m not saying I would never date a man with children again, but frankly, the thought of it makes me…tired. It’s just so much effort and the risks to all concerned are so great.
@Becky and rednrowdy: There’s a line in the Dixie Chicks song “Fly” that goes “Ain’t no talkin’ to this man/He’s been tryin’ to tell me so/Took a while to understand/THE BEAUTY OF JUST LETTING GO…” that seems terribly apropos. (My caps.) I love that song.
@Anonymous: Just to correct, I think that song is Patty Griffin’s, who is way, way more badass awesome than the Dixie Chicks. And who writes her own songs.
This is beautiful and I have tears in my eyes.
My dad married my stepmom when I was a small child, and I know she was just as in love with us as she was with him. Maybe moreso since she was unable to have any children of her own. She always tells us we were meant to be hers, and I know we couldn’t love each other more if she’d birthed us. I think I’ll go email her and tell her how much I love her.
And Pilgrim, I LOVE Patty Griffin.
((((((())))))))
God, that was the hardest break-up I’ve seen.
Sooo glad you’re in a place to write this, now. Such beautiful clarity. (not to mention kick-ass writing – prepping to publish, are we?)
That was a wonderful read! My stepmother has always been a terrible, terrible woman but I have been blessed with a stepfather who fell in love with me right along with my mother. He’s done more for me than any other person on this planet. Thank you so much for sharing!
Great story. You slipped and put his name in there. Might want to edit.
@aspiringexpat: Ha! I noticed that too. For the record, Dan is not his name. His name does begin with a D but when I first wrote this I just used Dan as a stopgap because it was quick and easy to type. But I did a lousy job editing it out after the fact.
@elibard: Thank God for you, girlfriend. Y’all, this fabulous commenter is my friend who drove me to D’s house and helped me clean all my stuff out, then took me to the mall for a gross but utterly necessary meal of chicken fingers and margaritas, and then let me crash at her house in a Klonopin induced stupor for the weekend so I wouldn’t have to be alone. Best.Friend.Ever.
Aw, hugs for you, too, elibard! You rock.
PSoul, indeed Griffin wrote it, but it was on the Chicks album “Fly” where I became familiar with it.
chicken fingers and margaitas…
that sounds glorious
This.is.beautiful.
becky, you’re an astonishingly good writer and I love that you shared your story.
As the mother of a six year old, though, I am absolutely torn up by this story. It hit me in a place that I cannot quite explain.
Wow Becky, what a powerful story. And such clear-eyed writing. Beautiful.
I don’t think this is an overshare at all. It is very rare I make it through blog posts (I am a swine for reading the first bit, then skipping to the end and saying “Yeah!” before finding something to eat) but I read this without even noticing, it was so touching. xxx
*blush* Becky, I’ve also never seen someone so honest and clear about her/his feelings and the real reasons for breaking up even in the thick of things. It was a privilege to ride the first swell of the storm with you, and to watch you walk your tightrope through the crashing and the mud, on a thin line forward. You’re beautiful.
[...] If your ex did you wrong, the whirligig will take care of him. I offer up my own examples: after the breakup from hell, my ex proceeded to lose his job, get Lyme disease, and have to sell off his home thanks to the [...]
Thank you for writing this! It was very sad and touching.
I’m in a very similar situation with my boyfriend, except the roles are reversed: he wants children, and I don’t want them or don’t even know if I could have any even if I did have want them. Thing is, I could definitely see him as a good father. I’m worried about our future as a couple but the only thing I think I can do is take it one day at a time.
Oh God. I’m in a relationship (2 years next month) with a wonderful man who has a 4 year old daughter (she was 2 when I met her). I love him, and adore her. But he has said he doesn’t want to have more children. I’m not sure where this leaves us. I’m not 100% sure that I do want to have kids. I would be fine with not having any, except I wonder if being around his child would make me pine away. I cry about this sometimes, and we have talked about it but not reached any resolution. And it’s not like my feelings for him are lessening. Thank you for writing this. I’m not sure how it will turn out for me, but it’s good to know someone else has been through this.
This is incredibly beautiful and I’m so glad you shared it.
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I have a daughter and my fiance has a daughter. I love them just the same, I’ve known my future stepdaughter since she was one. Our children get along just like sisters. Its his babymomma who has the problem for no reason at all. I love my fiance and his daughter and I love our childrens relationship but I can’t take to much of his exgirlfriends negativity in my life I just don’t understand and I can’t take it anymore. But goodluck to you, you told a very good story.
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OMG….I think the Lord send us messages in the most indirect ways. Before I read this story I was depressed and confused. I’m dating an older guy(44) with 2 kids. We are 2 months in and everything was great. Then he calls and tells me that he has thought long and hard and realized he doesn’t want anymore children.It broke my heart deeply. On one hand I truely understood why because he is a single dad but on the other hand what’s one more. So I have been debating if I should stay with him or not. I really don’t want to lose a great guy but your points in your story were exactly how I was feeling. He and I don’t want to wake up with regrets. But your story was so touching and enlightening for my young mind and heart(27). I believe that it isn’t wise for me to settle, even though my biological clock is screaming in my ear..lol I’m going to find someone who shares the same dreams as I. Thanks for the insight and strength.
[...] My friend was a little taken aback that he brought it up so soon, but I wasn’t. After all, I called off a marriage-bound relationship when my boyfriend changed his mind about wanting to have kids. If having children is important, [...]
i don’t know what else to say except:
thank you for sharing this, sister!
[...] intended to marry my boyfriend. We were desperately in love. But it ended, for reasons I’ve mentioned before. It was an excruciating breakup that took me a couple years to recover from. It was also the best [...]
Don’t feel bad. You missed out on a few happy years with Evie before she turned into a selfish little teen who refused your clothes or other gifts and never felt compelled to reciprocate the love you would now have felt for her.
Things might have gone better for you but chances are good it would have ended up as described above. You, being tolerated, and the real mother, whether alive and under-involved or gone and sainted, would still never quite measure up.
The credit for anything good she did would still go mainly to her father and BM and very little to you, but if you placed a step wrong it would come back to haunt you.
Kiss it off and be happier.